A trip to New York, winter arrives, and my bear killing wife

I’m headed to New York in the morning. Listen for me Monday on Leonard Lopate on WNYC, and I’d love to see you at Billy The Kid at the Independent Film Center Monday night. I'll also be visiting the Crownites in the Random House building, and taking their pictures so all of you can see what the world of publishing is really like at Christmas.

I’ll be doing a Q&A after both Billy the Kid shows, so I’ll be there all evening along with many other interesting people.

As you may have heard, we had a foot of snow up here in Amherst. Here’s a quintessential New England winter scene.

An old Dresser bulldozer rests under a blanket of freshly fallen snow.





















Here is Sal, one of the valiant Robison Service crew, clearing blown and piled snow in our Springfield yard:





















After the storm, I took a ride to the Deerfield rail yard, where the wreck train sits waiting. Here's Springfield Terminals Railway's 250 ton salvage crane, taken in the dark. Nikon D3, ISO 19,200. That's right . . . pictures in the dark.















Now for the story you are all waiting for . . . My Bear Killing Wife.

In the dark of the night, Unit 2 called me.

I’m in the Land Rover, she said. I just hit a bear! I think I killed it. She sounded upset.

Don’t get out of the car, I said. It might be wounded. I’ll be right over. Stay in the car. Shut the windows.

OK, she said. I’ll call the police.

I grabbed a pistol in case the bear was mad, not dead, and headed for Granby.

When I arrived there was a police car there. I was relieved to see the Land Rover intact, with Unit 2 securely inside. The cop joined me as I walked to the car. Wanna see him, he asked? He’s over there, dead. He pointed to the edge of the road.

We walked over just as two pickup trucks pulled up. They’d heard the call on their police scanners.

Where’s the bear, they asked? Over here. They got out, armed. We all gazed over the guard rail at the dead bear. He was a small bear, bigger than any dog but small enough to have an angry mom across the street. I was particularly alert because I’d almost hit a MUCH bigger bear in the same spot a few weeks back.

Luckily, we did not see a second bear and a shootout on School Street was averted. You know you’re in the country when five guys with guns can stand gazing into the dark and the law on the scene takes in all in stride.

So, you want him? The cop asked me.

In Granby, as in other rural towns, beasts killed by a wife become property of the husband. No, you can have him, I said.

I don’t want him, the cop said quickly. Hearing that, the crews from the pickup truck shouted in unison: I have a bear tag! They both shouted it out at the same time. I’ll take him, they said.

Most times, when someone hits a deer or bear out here in the country, they don’t call the cops. They toss him in back and head on home with fresh dinner. Remember my childhood friend, Road Kill Phil? And people wonder how strangers just vanish out in the hill towns . . . .

What are they going to do with him, Unit 2 asked nervously from the car.

Skin him and eat him. Coats and steaks.

That’s horrible, she cried. We should take him home and bury him.

We drove off as the cop and the guys in the truck bargained over the bear’s disposition.

Amazingly, the Land Rover was undamaged. It was just a freak thing, I guess. She hit the bear a glancing blow and broke his neck.

Somewhere in Granby, a bear steak is grilling. See you in New York Monday.